


I Try And Mend The Broken Pieces

by ImpishTubist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: A demon and his godson on a rainy afternoon in the South Downs.





	I Try And Mend The Broken Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Queen's "It's A Hard Life."

Rain patters against the bedroom window. When Crowley finally gives in to the inevitable and rises--when his corporation decides that he’s not going to sleep for another minute, no matter how much he wants to stay burrowed under the warm blankets--he pads downstairs to find rain drumming against the windows down there, too. A proper spring storm, then, one that has been going on for hours and will continue for several more. He considers for a moment miracling the clouds away, but his plants need the water and there’s nothing Aziraphale loves more than curling up in the armchair on a rainy day with a blanket thrown over his legs and a book in his lap. Crowley may even join him, as a snake looped around his shoulders, soaking up the heat Aziraphale’s body gives off.

And then he remembers that Aziraphale is in London for the weekend, tending to some business or another with the bookshop. Crowley hadn’t really been paying attention to the reason, too busy sulking about the fact that the angel was leaving him all alone with Adam for two days when they were supposed to be spending the week together, and then Aziraphale reminded him that Adam would still have five days with them when he returned, and Crowley could deal with their godson on his own for a weekend. 

Crowley fixes himself a cup of tea--a morning habit now, though he almost makes two before remembering again--and considers the rain. He stands by the sink, one hip propped against the counter, holding the mug in two hands as he peers through the window. Adam’s taken to helping him in the garden whenever he visits, but there will be none of that today, not with this weather. There’s a small conservatory out back they could put a few hours of work in. After that, he’ll probably spend some time stirring up petty debates on the Internet while Adam does whatever it is he does with social media on his phone, and maybe they’ll watch a few movies tonight. There are some movies that Crowley can’t persuade even Aziraphale to watch with him, but Adam shares his love for mindless action shoot-’em-ups. They won’t even bother with a proper dinner, and binge on sweets and popcorn. 

He smiles to himself, satisfied. A slothful, indulgent day lies ahead. It’s a shame Aziraphale won’t be able to join them for it, but then, there will always be other rainy days here in the South Downs. 

Crowley checks the time. It’s barely ten, and there’s no use trying to wake Adam before noon. He’s considering what kind of minor havoc he can cause in two hours when he hears the rustle of clothing in the living room, and something shifts on the couch. 

“Adam?” Crowley goes over to the couch and peers over the back. Adam’s curled up under two heavy blankets, and he’s too tall for the piece of furniture--his stockinged feet hang almost comically off the end. “What are you doing out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Adam’s words are thick, like he’s trying to speak around marbles in his mouth. There are bright splotches of color high on his cheekbones, and Crowley brushes his fingers over Adam’s forehead. He might be cold-blooded, but even he can tell that the skin is too warm. Adam is feverish.

Crowley’s fingers twitch, and Adam opens his eyes and grabs his hand before Crowley can so much as summon the power to heal him.

“No,” he says firmly, and his eyes are so much _older _than sixteen. They’re ancient, and Crowley suppresses a shiver as they stare right into his soul. Their godson is a delight, and he is terrifying. “I’m human. We do this the human way.” 

“Alright.” Crowley summons a thermometer and sticks it under Adam’s tongue. With his other hand, he’s already thumbing through articles on his phone. He’s seen enough illness and death in six thousand years that he has a relatively good idea of what the human body can stand, and what it can’t, but the only other human he’s ever had to care for was Warlock. He doesn’t exactly have an expansive frame of reference for these kinds of things.

His fever isn’t worrisome, but Adam is clearly miserable. He alternates between being unbearably hot and shiveringly cold. Crowley coaxes him to eat a piece of toast, and then he manages half a cup of tea before he falls asleep again. Crowley takes the duvet off their bed upstairs and drapes it over Adam as he shudders through waves of chills.

It took the combined efforts of Crowley and Adam and almost a month to teach Aziraphale how to properly use a mobile phone. Since then, he’s become astoundingly adept at using the device. He even has an Instagram account that boasts a surprising number of followers (Crowley prefers Twitter--he can stir up much more trouble that way). When Crowley texts him _Stealing some books for Adam--ill_, the response is immediate. Aziraphale miracles some of Adam’s favorite books from the shop to the cottage before Crowley can even snap his fingers, and a reply appears on his phone at almost the same moment. 

_Poor thing. I’ll come home tonight--does he want anything from the shops?_

_Stay, angel, _Crowley types back. _I’ve got it. We’ll be fine until tomorrow. _

_If you’re certain, dear._

Crowley sends him a kissing emoji, to which Aziraphale responds with a blushing one, and it shouldn’t make him as giddy inside as it does. 

Adam sleeps for most of the afternoon. Crowley puts some time in the conservatory, tending to the flowers out there, checking in on Adam periodically. The fever holds steady--paracetamol seems to have little effect on it, but at least it isn’t getting worse. 

When Crowley comes back in around dinnertime, Adam is awake and watching the television through bleary eyes. He barely stirs when Crowley leans over the back of the couch and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“How about some soup?” he asks, and Adam shrugs listlessly. “More toast?”

“Not hungry,” Adam murmurs. 

Crowley runs the back of his finger down Adam’s cheek, squeezes his shoulder bracingly, and goes to shower. He could miracle away the sweat and dirt that clings to him, but a hot shower is an indulgence. When he’s finished, he dresses in soft cotton sleep pants and a loose t-shirt, and goes into the kitchen to make Adam some food. 

“Come on, let’s try sitting up for a bit.” Crowley sets the bowl of soup on the coffee table and helps Adam into a sitting position. He hands over the soup, then sits next to Adam on the couch. He’s watching one of those baking shows, the ones that Aziraphale loves.

“Eat,” Crowley says when Adam merely holds the bowl and stares blankly at its contents. “Or I’ll spoon feed it to you. Your choice.” 

Adam eats the soup--laboriously slow, but he eats it all the same. When he’s finished, Crowley takes the bowl from him and sets it aside. Adam wraps the blankets more securely around himself and then rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder, curling into his side. 

Crowley goes still. Of their godchildren, Warlock is the more tactile one, but then, Crowley practically raised him from birth. Adam’s more reserved around them; if anything, when he needs comfort, he turns to Aziraphale. Which Crowley finds darkly amusing, considering Aziraphale had once pointed a gun at Adam on an airfield and tried to kill him, but the two of them had worked out their mixed feelings about that day years ago, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since.

Crowley carefully pulls his arm from where it’s pinned between them and curls it around Adam’s shoulders, drawing him against his side. Adam shivers, and after a moment’s concentration, Crowley manifests his wings. Adam startles, and then settles as a great black wing envelopes him. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, already half-asleep against Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley rakes his fingers through Adam’s hair, lulling him into a doze. He snaps the fingers of his other hand, switching from the baking show to a James Bond movie, and Adam huffs against his shoulder.

“Adam,” Crowley says after a few minutes. He knows Adam isn’t completely asleep; his breathing is too uneven for that. “Do you still have your powers?”

He’s never asked this, not in the five years since the airfield and the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. He’s never seen Adam display anything except for the occasional intensity and wisdom more suited to a being centuries older than he is, but he’s always wondered. 

For a long while, Adam says nothing. Doesn’t even move. Then, slowly, he nods against Crowley’s shoulder. 

“But you don’t use them,” Crowley says. He’s still stroking Adam’s hair, and Adam lets out a contented sigh. He then shakes his head.

“I don’t want them,” he mumbles. “When I reset the world...I made my dad _my dad_. I restored the bookshop and your car and brought people back to life, and I wished for my powers to go away--but they didn’t. Everything else did what it was supposed to. But I can still...do things. I just wanted to be human. And I’m not. If I don’t use my powers...maybe I am still human. A little bit.” 

“Adam.” Crowley shifts so that Adam has to sit up. He puts a finger under Adam’s chin, tilts his head until bleary eyes meet his. “I have been on this Earth for six thousand years, and you are the most _human _human I have ever met. Powers or no, that’s not going to change.” 

Adam blinks, and Crowley realizes with slowly-dawning horror that his eyes are overbright. This is _definitely _Aziraphale's department, at least when it comes to Adam. He doesn't know what to do with an unhappy Antichrist, who never asked to_ be _the Antichrist. Who never wanted to bring about the end of the world, even though that’s the only reason he was created. Crowley doesn't know how to begin to soothe this ache. So he does what he's seen Aziraphale do before, and draws Adam to his side again, allowing the boy's leaking tears to be soaked up by his shoulder. 

"I just want to be normal," he whispers. Crowley can't help the soft huff of laughter that escapes him.

"Sweetheart," he says quietly, "why on _Earth _would you want that?" 

It gets a laugh out of Adam--a wet one, but Crowley will take it.

“You are human in every way that counts,” Crowley tells him. “Remember what Aziraphale said at the airbase? You are _human _incarnate, and that’s far better than anything Heaven or Hell tried to mould you to be.” 

Adam sniffles for a few minutes more. Crowley materializes a box of tissues for him. When he’s finished blowing his nose, Crowley miracles the detritus away and coaxes Adam to lay down again. He does so, settling his head in Crowley’s lap, and mutters, “Hate bein’ sick.” 

Crowley hums in agreement. His corporation isn’t as susceptible to illness as a human body is, but he’s not completely immune to it, either. He’d even been discorporated over it, once. It wasn’t until almost a century after the plague was over that Hell bothered to give him a new corporation, and he’s taken great pains since then to make sure it doesn’t happen again. 

Adam falls asleep, for real this time. Crowley hears when his breathing evens out, feels Adam become a dead weight against him. He should move Adam to his room, but...this is nice. He lets his hand rest on Adam’s shoulder and thinks, they can stay like this for a little while longer. Just a few minutes more.

Crowley isn't the least bit surprised when, shortly after midnight, a flap of wings on an unseen plane of existence signals Aziraphale's arrival. He materializes in the living room, and his worried expression instantly melts the moment he sees Crowley and Adam.

"Don't," Crowley warns, lifting a finger, "say a _word_."

"My dear, I don't know what you're talking about." Aziraphale crosses the room to them. He pushes his fingers gently through Adam's hair, combing it out of his face, and places a kiss at the corner of Crowley's mouth. "_Certainly _I wasn't about to say that this is the most adorable sight I've seen in years, and I _absolutely _wasn't going to comment on how cute you look." 

Crowley grumbles, because he's still got an _appearance _to maintain, thank you very much.

"I told you to stay in London." 

"Yes, well, I couldn't bear the thought of you having to handle this all on your own, but it seems you’ve done just fine without me. How is he?”

Crowley can still feel the heat of Adam’s fever where his head rests on Crowley’s thigh, but he’s stopped shivering. That’s a good sign, Crowley thinks. It should be breaking soon.

“Fine. He ate, he slept.” Crowley decides against mentioning their little heart-to-heart. Adam doesn’t have much that he shares with Crowley and Crowley alone; that can stay between the two of them, he thinks. “I’ll put him to bed in a bit.” 

Aziraphale hums in a way that indicates he doesn’t believe this for a second, but he pats Crowley’s shoulder and bustles off to the kitchen to make some cocoa. 

And indeed, Crowley doesn’t move until Adam stirs. At that point, dawn is leaking over the horizon, and the room has taken on a pink tinge. Aziraphale is in his office, having retired there hours ago when it became clear Crowley wasn’t coming to bed. The angel doesn’t sleep, but he’ll sit reading in bed while Crowley does. On the nights Crowley elects not to sleep, Aziraphale will do his reading in his office.

“Feeling better?” 

Adam starts to sit up, then slumps against him with a groan. “Ugh. No.” 

“Bed, then. Come on.” 

Crowley’s there for support, but Adam makes it back to the guest bedroom on his own. He collapses on the bed, and Crowley gathers the blankets off the floor. He spreads them out over Adam, then sits on the end of the bed.

“That’s not what I meant, you know.” He grips Adam’s ankle through the blankets, squeezing gently. “About feeling better.”

“I know.” Adam gives him a small smile. “Thanks, Uncle Tony. You’re the best.” 

“Just call me _Crowley_, kid,” Crowley grumbles, leveling a stern glare at Adam despite the warmth that spreads through his chest. 

“Nah,” the Antichrist says, burrowing further into the blankets and closing his eyes. “Don’t think I will.” 

Crowley waits until Adam falls asleep before he gets up, kisses Adam’s forehead, and lets himself quietly out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY [ALSTON](https://alstonnovak.tumblr.com/), SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO FINISH.
> 
> Yes, this takes place in a post-canon universe where Aziraphale and Crowley are back in contact with Warlock again, too, and yes, I have fics for that. Stay tuned...
> 
> In the meantime, please come scream about Good Omens with me on [Tumblr](http://impishtubist.tumblr.com)[.]()


End file.
